


Where You Threw The Penny

by flawedamythyst



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-28
Updated: 2007-01-24
Packaged: 2018-10-16 03:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10562361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: Sam was drunk – a lot drunker than Dean had seen him since he'd introduced a seventeen-year-old Sammy to the concept of Tequila.





	1. Chapter 1

Sam was drunk – a lot drunker than Dean had seen him since he'd introduced a seventeen-year-old Sammy to the concept of Tequila. Not that Dean himself was entirely sober, but at least he was able to walk without needing support. Hence why Sam's arm was slung round Dean's shoulders while he guided them back to the motel.

Sam was giggling about something, although Dean wasn't really sure what Sam's current topic was anymore. The last time he'd been paying attention to what Sam was saying, it'd been something to do with Stanford and skinny dipping, and then Sam had thrown his head back to laugh, and...well. Dean couldn't be expected to pay attention to Sam's drunken ramblings when he was having to resist the urge to lick Sam's neck. He tore his eyes away, and concentrated on getting them both back to the motel, where he could get some water into Sam so that he wouldn't be too much of a bitch in the morning. Dean concentrated hard on that goal, because afterwards he could crash and forget about the line of Sam's neck, and the maddening inch of flesh that showed every time he raised his arms, and the way Dean just wanted to stroke every inch of Sam's skin to see if it was as soft as it looked.

It was just a silly crush, really. That's what Dean always told himself; that it was all just a silly crush and nothing to worry about. Most of the time Dean didn't even think about it, but then Sam would wear one of his too-small T-shirts, and Dean would spend the whole day getting flashes of his brother's stomach and, god, his _hips_ , and trying not to think about what he would feel like beneath his fingertips. Beneath his lips. And, of course, it was harder to fight the images when he was drunk and Sam was drunker, and, apparently, so fucking happy that he couldn't stop laughing and grinning at Dean with shining eyes.

But it wasn't going to go anywhere, so it wasn't problem. Apart from the whole brothers thing (and, really, that was just fucking wrong, but what could Dean do? Apparently, he was a huge pervert.) Sam had never shown any interest in Dean like that (probably because he wasn't a huge pervert), or, indeed, any man that Dean knew of. Making any kind of move was only going to fuck up the easy brotherliness that Dean had tried so hard to regain after their four years apart. Dean has a much better plan. He ignored his random, irrational urges to lick Sam's neck, he tried not to stare at him with raw sexual desire too often and he repressed as much of his unnatural lust as was possible, because, really, when it came down to it, he could get sex anywhere, but he only had one brother.

They reached the motel, and there was a brief amount of fumbling as Dean tried to unlock the door and keep Sam from falling on his ass at the same time. They stumbled inside, and Dean dumped Sam on his bed and then shut the door behind them.

Sam lay back on the bed and giggled again. “Man, I'm pretty drunk,” he said, happily.

Dean laughed. “I know,” he said, “you keep giggling like a teenage girl.”

“I don't giggle,” said Sam, still sounding on the edge of laughter, “I'm manly. I...” he paused for a long moment. Dean assumed he'd lost his train of thought, and knelt down by the bed to start undoing Sam's shoes. “I'm chuckling!” announced Sam finally, waving an arm in the air. Dean ignored him and slid Sam's shoe off, then started to work on the other one. Sam leant up awkwardly on his elbows and frowned at him.

“I could do that, you know,” he said.

Dean laughed, and pulled Sam's other shoe off. “Well, you seemed kinda busy 'chuckling',” he said, loading the last word with as much sarcasm as possible. Sam huffed, and Dean stood up and moved away, heading for the bathroom.

“What? That's it?” said Sam, “You're not going to take the rest off?”

Dean ignored the sudden rush of _god, I wish_ and glanced over his shoulder. Sam was giving him a look that was obviously meant to be flirtatious. Dean raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, you're not really my type.” Which was technically true, because if Dean had a type, it was easy women with curvy figures and too much make-up and not tall, dark-eyed men. Sam was the exception rather than the rule.

Sam pouted and Dean turned away, trying to concentrate on filling the glass with water. There was a thump of feet on the floor, and Dean could hear Sam's shuffling walk over to him, but he still jumped when Sam's arm crept around his waist and pulled him back towards Sam's chest.

“I could be,” he said softly, and Dean froze for a moment. He pulled away from Sam's arm and turned around, and then relaxed when he saw the teasing grin. Just another of their constant attempts to wind each other up. He pushed at Sam's chest, and Sam rocked backwards, putting a foot out to prevent himself falling.

“Just drink this, and go to sleep, Sam,” Dean said, trying to keep his tone light and his reaction natural, rather than lust-filled. Sam pouted again, but took the glass from him and started to drink, tipping his head back and gulping the water down as if he'd been lost in a desert for several days. Dean thought for a moment about trying to get past him and out of the bathroom, but Sam was standing entirely too close, and the room was too small for him to get away. He forced himself to stand still and tried not to look too longingly at Sam's throat as he swallowed the water. Of course, once he tried to stop himself doing it, he couldn't tear his eyes away. When he finally managed to do so, he found himself staring at Sam's chest instead, and then his eyes dropped to that taunting inch of bare flesh that showed between Sam's waistband and his shirt. He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. Definitely time to go to sleep. He glanced back up at Sam, to find that he had finished the water, and was looking at Dean with a slightly confused look. Dean took the empty glass from Sam's hand.

“Go and get into bed,” he said, and turned away to refill the glass. Sam hovered behind him for a moment and then shuffled back towards the beds. Dean resisted the urge to punch the wall – he needed to get better at hiding the way his thoughts ran when Sam was that close to him. Sam wasn't stupid and had a tendency to notice shit like that. When he finally did, Dean would be screwed. He took the water back into the room, put it down on the bedside table, then sat down on his bed and bent to take his boots off. Sam was sitting up against his headboard, still fully dressed. Dean could feel his gaze on him as he undid his laces, and glanced up to meet it.

“You going to sleep like that?” Dean asked, nodding towards Sam's clothed state.

Sam looked down at himself, and then grinned again. “Maybe I need some help taking my jeans off,” he said, trying for flirtatious again, and still managing to miss it. Dean rolled his eyes.

“I think you can handle it yourself,” he said, “You're a big girl now, after all.”

And then Sam was moving, scooting to the edge of the bed, until he was sitting facing Dean, their knees touching. Dean shifted back slightly.

“Maybe I want you to handle it,” said Sam, blinking rapidly. Dean realised he was attempting to bat his eyelashes, but before he could snigger at that, Sam leant forward and put his hands on Dean's knees, and murmured, “Big boy.”

And that, really, was when Dean became possessed. Well, it was the only logical explanation, really. Sam's attempt at seduction was appalling, and Dean had sworn so many times that he wouldn't let himself do anything inappropriate to Sam, and he'd never have leant forward just far enough to press his lips to Sam's unless someone else was in control. Sam gave a little gasp and then pulled back, and Dean froze, and then plastered on a smirk. He could pull this off as just an escalation of Sam's game, he really could.

“Guess you're not going to put out after all,” he said, but Sam was looking at him in a way that was entirely too knowing for someone who was too drunk to walk in a straight line. “Looks like you're going to have to take off your own jeans,” Dean added, and then slapped his hand on Sam's thigh. Sam grabbed his hand before he could move away.

Dean stared at him, but Sam's face was giving nothing away, and, really, Dean was too drunk for this shit, so he kissed Sam again, figuring that would either get Sam to back off, or, maybe he'd -- figuring that would get Sam to back off.

Sam didn't back off. He opened up his mouth beneath Dean's, and Dean took his opportunity, slipping his tongue inside. Sam grabbed Dean's shoulders, and lay back on his bed. He pulled Dean with him, until Dean was resting on his hands, hovering over Sam. Sam's face was still giving nothing away, but his hands crept up under Dean's shirt, and Dean couldn't help just going with it. He bent down and kissed Sam again, this time with purpose, and shifted so that one of his knees rested between Sam's legs. Sam's hands moved further up inside his shirt, and slid over Dean's chest, and Dean decided touching smooth skin was a fantastic idea. He pulled back from the kiss and grabbed the bottom of Sam's T-shirt. He met Sam's eyes, and raised an eyebrow in a silent question, and Sam sat up enough that Dean could pull it off and over his head. Dean threw it somewhere behind him, and bent back down to run his lips over Sam's skin, down his neck and across his chest.

Sam's skin was even smoother than Dean had imagined, and he made a tiny gasping noise when Dean ran his tongue around his nipple. Dean was still waiting for his brother to stop him, to realise what was happening and freak out, but Sam just kept running his hands up Dean's sides, and then down over his ass. This had to be a dream or something, because no way would Sam actually let Dean kiss his way down to Sam's stomach, and there was certainly no way he'd be that hard just from Dean's touch. Dean ran an experimental hand over Sam's crotch, and Sam made a moaning noise. Dean took this as encouragement, and undid Sam's jeans, pulling them down as far as he could, taking Sam's boxers with the pants. Sam's cock was suddenly there, hard and flushed, right in front of him. Dean glanced up at Sam's face quickly, but Sam was lying back, breathing heavily, and Dean couldn't see his expression, couldn't see if this was okay.

Dean went down anyway -- after all, he’d gotten that far, hadn’t he?-- and licked up Sam's cock, then wrapped his mouth around it. Sam gave a choking groan, and Dean felt a strange sense of accomplishment. He concentrated for a few minutes on using every trick he knew to make Sam keep making those noises and keep clutching at Dean's hair tight enough to hurt. He was close to causing Sam to lose it all, and was wondering vaguely if he could pull together enough brain power to open his own jeans one-handed while continuing to drive Sam wild with his mouth, when he felt a strong grip on his shoulders.

He pulled off Sam, thinking, _here we go; he's going to freak out_ and looked up to see Sam's eyes were black with desire. Sam pulled him up his body, and Dean went, willing to see what he had planned. The idea that Sam was into this enough to want to take control was almost enough to make Dean come right there and then. Sam pressed their mouths together, and Dean could feel Sam's breath panting into his mouth, which really shouldn't have been as hot as it was. He felt hands at his shirt, pulling upwards, and sat back so that Sam could strip the tee off him. Sam sat up as well, and started work on Dean's jeans, and then there was a desperate few minutes while they both tried to get the other completely naked while still kissing as much as possible.

Sam ran his hand down Dean's chest, then rested his fingers on Dean's hip and looked up at him. Dean searched his face, trying to see past Sam's lop-sided smile to his thoughts, but was distracted when Sam's touch stroked across to his cock. Dean bent down to kiss Sam's neck, and put his own hand on Sam's cock. And there was nothing but hot, heavy breathing, and the feel of Sam's hand on him, stroking hard and strong while he tried to do the same for Sam, tried to keep a rhythm despite the way Dean's world was rapidly contracting until there was nothing but the heat in his belly and the thought of _God, it's Sam, it's Sam's hand, he's with me, it's Sam, Sam, Samsamsamsam..._ and then he was coming, and gasping and trying not to collapse on top of Sam. He took a deep breath, readjusted his movement on Sam's cock, and then Sam gave a quiet cry, and shot come all over Dean's hand.

Sam just lay there, breathing heavily for a bit, then laughed a bit breathlessly, and slurred, “See? I totally got you to take my jeans off.”

Dean let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and rolled off Sam. Sam took the opportunity to shuffle under the blankets, and Dean wondered what the etiquette was for post-coital moments when it was your brother who you were considering falling asleep with. The post-orgasm bliss was starting to wear off, and he realised that his stomach and hand were going to be disgusting in the morning unless he washed them now. He eased off the bed, eyes on Sam's face but Sam was pretty much dead to the world already, so he went to the bathroom. As he ran his hand under the tap and watched Sam's come disappear down the drain, he felt a slight pang, which he did his best to ignore.

When he went back into the room, Sam had sprawled out across his whole bed. Dean just stood and looked at him for a moment, and then climbed into his own bed, lying on his side so that he could still see Sam. He wondered what was going to happen in the morning – if Sam would even remember anything at all. He looked at their clothes, mixed up together on the floor, and thought that perhaps he should tidy them away, make it less obvious what had just occurred. But it was done now, and there was no denying it. All Dean had to do was wait and see what Sam's reaction would be.

He closed his eyes and felt himself sleep away into sleep, still thinking, _please don't let him hate me...please, please don't let him hate me..._

 


	2. And Where It Fell

When Sam woke up, he was desperate for a piss, his head felt like it was breaking open, the whole room smelt of sex and Dean was pretending to be asleep. He groaned, stumbled to the bathroom, then collapsed back into bed. It was way too early to try and piece together what had happened, so he just went straight back to sleep.

The second time he woke up, the sun was bright behind the curtains, and Dean was up, fully clothed and staring at the laptop. Sam stretched, then winced as various parts of his body sent in damage reports. His head was still aching, his stomach churned and his mouth tasted like something had died in it. He pulled himself up into a sitting position, and pretended not to notice Dean's sudden, brief glance over at him when he was unable to keep in a small, pained noise. He glanced at the bedside table to find that, as expected, there was a glass of water waiting for him. He picked it up carefully, and drank down as much as he could, swirling it round his mouth in an effort to wipe away the stale alcohol taste that still lingered from last night.

It was at about that point that his brain started putting together the various signs that all was not normal for a morning after. Dean was still staring at the laptop, rather than offering Sam a grin and a mocking comment about Sam being a lightweight; Sam was naked under the covers and his clothes were strewn on the floor; and his body had a familiar, relaxed quality that he hadn't experienced in several months. He recalled the smell of sex from the first time he'd woken up and his eyes widened in shock.

He looked over at Dean, who was still avoiding his eyes. “Dude, did we have sex last night?”

Dean gave a start and finally looked at Sam, but Sam couldn't read his expression. He just stared for a moment, and then twitched one shoulder up and gave a wry grin that didn't reach his eyes.

“Seems like,” he said, and then looked back at the laptop. “I think I found us a gig in Oregon. There've been some weird murders.”

Sam took a moment to process that. And then another. “We had sex last night,” he said slowly, still trying to fit his brain around the concept.

Dean said nothing and kept his gaze on the screen.

“That's all you're going to say about it?”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” said Dean, “I'm not buying you any fucking flowers or anything.”

Sam sighed exasperatedly. “An acknowledgement that we just got even more fucked up would do,” he said.

Dean's face twitched, but he kept his gaze on the screen. “Alright, we got even more fucked up. Happy? Now, do you want to me to tell you about these murders or not?”

Sam wondered how Dean could make him pissed off so soon after he'd woken up and swung his legs out of bed. “Not. I'm going to have a shower.” He got out of bed and went into the bathroom without bothering to find clothes. If Dean was going to treat this like it wasn't important, then Sam would as well.

Hot water running down his body made Sam feel a lot better, and after a few minutes, his mind woke up enough to say _We did WHAT last night??_ Sam leaned one hand against the tiles and took several deep breaths. Ok, so, he'd had sex with Dean – his _brother_ Dean last night. There was no need to panic. There was bound to be a perfectly logical explanation. Perhaps there had been some kind of spell? Or some sort of demon substance that caused uncontrollable lust? Maybe the beer had been spiked? Or those brightly coloured shots that Sam only half remembered. What had been in them, anyway? Of course, he had to concede after a moments thought, if there'd been something supernatural involved, there'd probably be some sign of it, and Dean would be planning a hunt here, rather than looking at murders in Oregon.

Which meant that the blame rested only with him and Dean. And, of course, half a bar's worth of alcohol, but Sam wasn't sure he could pin all the blame on that. He took a moment to search his memory for anything that might give him a hint of how this started, but the last thing he could remember was sitting in the bar, drinking something blue while the bartender gave him an _are you sure you want to be doing that, son?_ look. It had made him laugh at the time. Everything after that was a complete blank, though. Sam turned the shower off, and pulled a towel off the rack, wondering how much Dean remembered. He hadn't been as drunk as Sam, and he didn't seem as hung-over now. Sam put the towel back and opened the door, determined to ask Dean what he remembered, only to find that the room was empty. _Curses, foiled!_

By the time Dean came back with coffee and a couple of doughnuts, Sam was fully clothed, packed and ready to go. He drank the coffee gratefully, but turned the doughnut down when his stomach roiled at the smell of it.

Dean sidestepped Sam's attempts to talk by saying, “We need to get to Oregon. Those murders are definitely our kind of thing – I'm pretty sure there's an angry spirit.”

“Dean...” started Sam, cursing himself for being distracted by coffee rather than interrogating his brother.

“No time for chitchat,” said Dean, picking up his bag and opening the door, “if we leave now, we can get there early enough to do some snooping.”

Sam sighed, picked up his bag and followed Dean out of the room and over to the Impala. “Snooping? What, are we the Hardy Boys now?”

Dean gave him a glare and got into the car, but not before Sam heard him mutter, “I wish,” under his breath.

Sam frowned and opened the passenger door, determined to head the conversation back towards what may or may not have happened last night, but by the time he was in the car, Dean was already blasting Motorhead out of the speakers. He drove away from the motel as if there was a pack of werewolves behind them. Sam glanced at Dean's white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and his determined stare at the road ahead and decided to leave it for now. Besides, the music was starting to make his head thump again. He leant his head against the window and watched the scenery whiz by.

 _I had sex with my brother last night_ Sam thought to himself. The words seemed to make no sense. He found his eyes slipping shut and allowed himself to be pulled under, back into sleep. He'd still have slept with his brother when he woke up – he could deal with it then.

He woke up in a diner parking lot with Dean's hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, Sleeping Beauty, time for lunch,” said Dean, pulling away. Sam took a moment to pull his thoughts together, and then followed him into the diner.

Dean picked a table next to a young family, a move Sam recognised as a 'don't talk about gay sex in front of the kiddies' tactic. Sam slid into the seat and glanced at the menu, wondering if his stomach was up to eating something, or whether it would be better to stick to just coffee.

In the end, he risked getting a chicken sandwich, and Dean ordered something which was more grease and fat than actual food. As they waited for it to come, Dean fiddled with the sugar packets, and avoided meeting Sam's eyes. Sam sighed and leant forward, resting his chin on his hands.

“Alright,” he said, and Dean's shoulders stiffened. His body language screamed _go away and don't talk to me,_ and Sam took a moment to reconsider his plan of action.

“So, these murders...?” Dean glanced up then, startled that Sam wasn't pursuing the events of last night. Sam could see the father of the family on the table next to them give him a quick look at the mention of 'murders'. Yeah, definitely too close to talk about sex. Particularly gay, incestuous sex that he couldn't remember. _Oh, God, I've committed incest._

“There's been five,” said Dean, cutting off Sam's train of thought, “all in the same house over the last year. All the victims seem unrelated, but the murders definitely are. They all had their throats slashed and some of their fingers removed.”

Sam could feel his brain moving into 'hunt' mode. “Which fingers?”

Dean shrugged. “Didn't say in the newspapers, and I couldn't get the autopsy reports.”

“I can get those later,” said Sam, thinking about hacking into the morgue’s database. “What makes you think it's our kind of thing?”

The waitress came round with their meals then, and Dean was already looking up at her and fixing on his best 'I am Dean Winchester – melt for me' smile as he said, “A feeling,” in an off-hand manner.

Sam gritted his teeth in frustration and looked down at his sandwich, testing the reaction of his stomach to it. Nothing rebelled, so he tentatively took a small bite. When he looked back at Dean, Dean was tucking into his plateful of grease with single-minded enthusiasm, and Sam realised that the window for conversation had closed. He turned back to his sandwich, reasoning that once he ate it, he might feel better and that if he felt better, he might be more successful at getting Dean to talk to him about this.

Sam leaned back in his chair and watched Dean flirt with the waitress as he paid, thinking to himself _I had sex with that man last night. My brother – I had sex with my brother last night._ What did that even mean anyway? What _exactly_ had happened? Had they just jacked each other off in an 'I want someone else's hand on my dick, but there's no one else here but you' way? Had they kissed at all? Sam realised he wanted to know everything that had happened – every touch, every moment, every emotion behind it. Dean stood up and glanced at Sam, frowning slightly. Sam stood up and followed him back to the car. How much did Dean remember? He wasn't giving anything away, but Sam knew Dean held his drink better than he did – surely he must remember what had happened?

They got back in the car, and Dean jammed a tape in almost immediately. AC/DC exploded from the speakers, and Sam resigned himself to another long drive while Dean attempted to forget he had a passenger, much less one he'd had sex with the previous night. At least Sam's hangover was starting to ease now.

Half an hour later, Sam was staring at the landscape, still trying to envision the logistics of sex with his brother. 'Back in Black' faded out, and there was a brief silence before the opening chords of 'You Shook Me all Night Long' played. There was a sudden movement behind Sam, and he turned in time to see Dean eject the tape with a little more force than was necessary. He stared at his brother, but Dean just turned back to the road, without an explanation.

There was silence in the car for a couple of minutes. Sam knew that Dean wasn't open to conversation, and that he still didn't want to hear this. Sam should just keep his mouth shut and let it go for now, but, really, he had been pretty amazingly patient already, and he wasn't sure he could keep the words in anyway.

“How much do you remember about last night?” he asked, still watching Dean. Dean's back stiffened with tension, and then he gave a small sigh and relaxed a little, as if accepting the inevitability of this conversation

“Most of it,” he said, gruffly.

Sam left a pause before asking the question they both knew was coming. “What happened?”

Dean pressed his lips together and said nothing, just pressing down on the accelerator.

“Please, Dean,” said Sam, softly, “I just want to know. I can't remember anything.”

Dean exhaled through his nose and then said in clipped tones, “We got drunk, I sucked your dick, we jerked each other off, then we fell asleep.”

Sam took a moment to process that. Dean had sucked his dick? He looked over at Dean's mouth, which was set in a hard line and tried to imagine it wrapped around his cock. The image came into his head surprisingly easily. Dean's lips red with the pressure, his cheeks hollow as he sucked...Sam found himself getting turned on at it. He was getting turned on by the thought of his brother in a sexual context. That was new.

He still had one more question to ask before Dean's sharing mood dissipated, though, so he put aside that revelation for the moment.

“Did we...did we kiss?” he asked hesitantly. Dean seemed surprised by the question. He took his fixed glare off the road and glanced at Sam, then turned the tape over and pushed it back into the tape player.

“Yes,” he said, hoarsely, and then the car was full of James Hetfield's loud vocals.

Five hours, and several loud rock albums later, they arrived in Bandoon, Oregon. Dean pulled into the first motel and got out of the car without a word, without even looking at Sam. He booked their room, grabbed their bags from the trunk and dumped them on the bed, all without even glancing in Sam's direction.

Sam pulled out the laptop and took advantage of the wireless internet available in the room to attempt to hack into the local morgue's files and retrieve the victims' records. He'd gotten more out of Dean in the car than he'd expected and so decided not to push it for a bit. He'd give Dean the space Dean so obviously needed and give himself a little time to work through the realisation that the idea of his brother sucking him off turned him on. During the drive, Sam had tried to justify that to himself, tried to explain it away as nothing, but he just kept coming back to that image of Dean's mouth enveloping his dick. It was clear he was pretty fucked up on some basic level, because he couldn't stop wondering if it would ever happen again. Preferably when he could remember it.

It took him about half an hour to get the autopsy reports, during which time Dean brought their stuff in, unpacked as much as they ever did, got the guns out, looked at them and then put them away again, turned on the TV and watched a minute and half of Beauty and the Geek and then flicked it off and announced, “I'm going to have a shower.” He disappeared into the bathroom before Sam could reply, and Sam let out a sigh of relief. Then the shower was turned on, and he had a sudden mental image of Dean's naked, wet body and had to take a moment to compose himself. _Right, so, not just the idea of Dean blowing me then._

Dean spent a long time in the shower. Sam was able to find the information they were looking for, watch as much of Beauty and the Geek as he could stand (about 4 seconds), and get immersed in a drama on PBS about Elizabeth I before Dean finally emerged, fully dressed.

He almost looked at Sam when he asked, “Any luck?” but Sam could see that his gaze was actually at a point just over Sam's shoulder.

“Yeah,” said Sam, clicking the TV off. “Each of the victims had a different number of fingers cut off – the first was his index finger, the second that one and his middle finger, the third those two and the ring finger...”

“So, what?” frowned Dean, “It's keeping count?”

Sam shrugged. “Possibly. They never found any of the fingers.”

Dean grimaced. “That's kinda gross, even for a spirit,” he said.

“I think our next plan of action is going to be researching the house,” said Sam, “which will have to be at the library tomorrow, because their online records suck here.”

Dean nodded. “Well, let's get dinner then,” he said, grabbing his coat. He was already halfway across the parking lot by the time Sam had pulled his own coat on and locked the door behind them. They settled into a booth at the diner, this time one without young families nearby. In fact, hardly anyone else was in there at all. The waitress was clearly bored and tired, and not even Dean's automatic grin softened her blank gaze as she waited for them to order.

They sat in awkward silence once they had done so, and Sam found himself casting around for something to say to fill it. Dean was just staring out of the window at nothing and Sam wanted to pull his attention back, wanted to get some slight sign that one day they'd be able to put this behind them. He racked his brains for something – anything to say that wasn't related to the previous night but was still at a loss when the waitress dumped their food down in front of them. Dean immediately tucked in, eating as if the food would disappear if he wasn't quick enough. Sam picked up his fork and poked at his pasta for a bit before saying vaguely, “Is it good?”

Dean grunted something around his mouthful, and Sam resigned himself to another conversation-less meal. They left the minute Sam had eaten his last bite. Dean had already finished and paid, and was jiggling his knee nervously, obviously anxious to get away. Sam followed him back to the room and thought for a moment about getting his own room and allowing Dean the distance he wanted, but felt a little sick at the thought that there was anything they couldn't work through.

He sat down heavily on his bed, and watched Dean flick rapidly through the channels for a while.

“Was it really so bad that you can't even look me in the eye now, or did something else happen?” he said eventually, keeping his tone as casual as possible.

Dean froze, and the TV stopped skipping channels. One part of Sam's mind was mildly amused to note that it had stuck on High School Musical, but the rest of him was waiting for Dean's response.

“Jesus, Sam,” he said, eventually, “Isn't that enough? Do you really want there to be more?”  
Sam thought about that for a moment. “So, was it...was it my fault? Did I start it?”

“No,” growled Dean, “Look, can't you just leave it?”

“Depends,” Sam retorted, “Can you?”

Dean did look at him then - a long, hard glare. “Maybe if you'd shut up about it for five minutes, I could.”

“Dean,” exclaimed Sam, exasperated, “You've barely spoken to me all day, you won't even look at me – what am I supposed to do?”

Dean clenched his jaw and looked back at the television. After a moment of watching a couple of teenagers singing about love, he flicked it off.

“Look,” Sam continued, trying to be reasonable, “I can't...I don't know what happened, but if there's something we should talk about...”

“Goddammit!” shouted Dean, suddenly, “Talking doesn't always help, you know.” He stood up. “Why can't you get that I want to forget about this?”

He stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. Sam cursed under his breath and flopped backwards onto the bed. How typical that the first time he gets drunk in ages, he ends up fucking everything up, and then forgetting about it. Or, wait - Sam frowned and remembered that Dean had said _no_ when Sam had asked if he'd started it. The way Dean had said it...Sam opened his eyes wide in sudden realisation. If Sam hadn't initiated it, then Dean must have. And Dean hadn't been as drunk as Sam had been; he must have been at least partially aware of what he was doing. Suddenly Dean's refusal to meet his eyes made sense. He was feeling guilty because he thought he'd taken advantage of Sam's drunken state, which, on reflection, was true, but Sam really wasn't that upset about it if it meant he got a chance to feel Dean's mouth on his cock.

Dean came out of the bathroom and climbed into bed. “Hurry up,” he groused, “I want to turn the light out.”

“Right,” said Sam, still trying to work out what his latest realisation meant. He went into the bathroom and cleaned his teeth entirely on auto-pilot. If Dean had started it, maybe that meant that Sam had a chance at a repeat performance that he could remember. He rinsed his mouth out and stared at himself for a moment in the mirror, before coming to a decision.

When he came out of the bathroom, Dean was lying on his back with his eyes shut. Sam stripped down to his boxers and put his clothes inside his bag. He turned around to see Dean's eyes flickering shut and stalked over to stand by Dean's bed.

“Is this messing you up so much because you're disgusted and want to wipe your memory,” he asked, hoping very much that this wasn't going to backfire, “or because you enjoyed it and want to do it again?”

Dean's eyes snapped open at that and he just stared at Sam for a moment. Sam caught the split second when Dean took in his un-clothed state before he focussed on Sam's eyes, looking for something in them.

“Go to bed,” he said, and it sounded like a plea. Instead, Sam sat down on the edge of the bed and put his hand on Dean's shoulder.

“Do you really want me to?” he said, in a low voice. Dean looked at him for what seemed a very long time, and then sat up with a rush and grabbed Sam's wrist.

“What are you doing?” he said, and there was a tone in his voice that made Sam think that maybe he hadn't fucked this up completely.

“Taking a gamble,” said Sam, and he leant forward so that his mouth was only an inch away from Dean's. Dean seemed caught in indecision for a moment, and then he closed the distance between them and pressed their mouths together. It was soft and tentative and Sam tried to deepen it, tried to make Dean more certain about this. He ran the hand that was still on Dean's shoulder down his back, and then brought it up to cup Dean's cheek.

Dean pulled back, and just stared at Sam for a moment. “This is wrong,” he said, “This is so wrong. We should stop,” but he didn't release his grip on Sam's wrist, or try to move away.

“If you don't want to do this,” said Sam, “then I'll stop. If...if this disgusts you, then say, and I'll never mention it again, but...” Sam paused for a moment and then laid it all out, “I want this. I want you, and I can't think of any reason – any good reason why we shouldn't.”

Dean continued just looking at him for a moment, and Sam began to have a feeling of creeping dread that he was going to reject this, reject him. Then Dean brought his hand up to Sam's side, flipped him and pushed him down so that he was lying back on the bed, and kissed him, hard and hot. Sam gasped into Dean's mouth and kissed him back, a rush of relief and euphoria running through him. He put his hands on Dean's waist, feeling the movement in his muscles there, and then slipped them under his shirt and ran them up his side.

Dean pulled back and Sam's heart clenched when he saw he was smiling. _God,_ he thought, _this is actually happening. We're doing this. We both want this._

“This is...” Dean paused and cleared his throat. “That's what you did last night,” he said quietly.

Sam raised one eyebrow at him and ran his hands across Dean's back, feeling the smoothness and warmth of his skin. “What else did we do?” he said. “Show me.”

Dean smirked at him. “I took your shirt off,” he said, “but I guess you already took care of that for me.” He bent back down to kiss Sam and Sam lost himself in the feel of Dean's lips on his, and the headiness of feeling Dean’s skin underneath his hands.

“Didn't...didn't I take your shirt off?” he asked breathlessly, when Dean pulled back, panting slightly.

“No,” said Dean, ”not until after I'd done this.” And then his lips were working their way down Sam's neck and across his chest, and all Sam could think of as Dean's tongue circled his nipple was Dean's words in the car.

 _I sucked your dick._ Dean – Dean was going to suck his dick. Right now, he was going to put his mouth on Sam's cock, right here. _Oh God._

Dean worked his mouth down Sam's stomach to his boxer waistband and then just rested his hand on it for a moment. Sam propped himself up on his elbows, barely able to breath. Dean glanced up at him with an unreadable look and Sam grinned, trying to convey how fine he was with this. Dean smirked back and pulled Sam's boxers down.

When his mouth descended around Sam's cock, Sam's arms refused to continue supporting him, and he fell back onto the bed, making a somewhat embarrassing moaning noise as he did. Dean's mouth sucked and licked and moved and he couldn't think. At one point he came to himself enough to realise he was pulling on Dean's hair hard enough to hurt, but Sam couldn't find it in himself to stop.

And then Dean was stopping, and pulling off and Sam couldn't help but give a gasping whimper which made Dean chuckle.

“Last night,” said Dean, in a quiet voice, “this is where you took my clothes off.”

Sam looked down at Dean for a moment, waiting for his brain to start working again. When it did, it presented him with an image of Dean naked, and he sat up quickly. “That seems like a damn good plan,” he said, his voice still breathless.

Dean grinned at him, and allowed Sam to pull his shirt off, and then unbuckle his belt and push down his jeans and boxers in one go. He kicked them off and Sam took a moment to appreciate that Dean, _Dean_ was naked in front of him. He grabbed him and hauled him down for a kiss, groaning as his cock rubbed against Dean's hip. Dean moved them back until Sam was leaning against the headboard and then ran his hand back down to Sam's cock, which he wrapped his fingers around. Sam gasped and thrust instinctively upwards, then put his arms up and wrapped them around Dean. He became aware that most of what they'd done so far had been Dean making Sam feel good and he decided it was high time that he got to explore Dean's body properly. He shifted them around in one quick move so that Dean was lying against the headboard instead. Dean made a breathless noise and Sam kissed him by way of apology, then sat back for a moment to just look at Dean and decide what he wanted to do with him.

“You didn't do this last night,” said Dean, apprehensively.

Sam grinned. “Time to try something new.”

He bent down and began to imitate his brother's exploration of his body earlier, tasting Dean's sweat and lingering on his nipples when a quick lick made Dean suck in a gasp. He worked his way down across Dean's stomach and paused when he reached his cock. He'd never done this before – he'd thought about it, not with Dean, of course, but with other men. He'd just never seemed to get round to actually doing anything about his thoughts.

“Sam...” started Dean, and he sounded wary. Sam glanced up at his face, and then licked up the underside of Dean's cock. Dean's head fell back, whatever he had been starting to say dying off, and Sam wrapped his mouth around the head and sucked. Dean gasped again, sounding shocked. It took Sam a while to get the hang of it – he tried out several different things, listening to Dean's gasps and occasional cries to gauge the effectiveness of his methods. He ignored the ache in his jaw as Dean began to tremble and had a quick moment of _for me, he's shaking because of me_ before reaching down to where his own cock was desperate for attention. He wrapped his fingers around it and started to stroke, and there were a few minutes where he thought that the coordination of his hand on his cock, his mouth on Dean's and the hand he was using to prop himself up was going to prove to be too difficult, but then it all suddenly came together. Dean was gasping constantly now, sounding as if he was drowning, and then he gave a warning grunt and came in Sam's mouth. Sam choked a bit, and drew back slightly, swallowing Dean's bitter come. He sped up the motion of his hand, squeezing tighter and harder until he was coming too, his eyes locked with Dean's.

He sat back on his heels and just breathed for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. He wanted nothing more to collapse forward against Dean's chest, but he wasn't sure Dean would welcome that. Dean had slept in his own bed last night, after all, and he'd never shown that there was more to this than pure lust – maybe he just wanted sex. Sam wasn't sure what he wanted – this all seemed so new, but he wasn't going to push Dean too far with this. He didn't want to risk it.

Dean was lying back, still breathing heavily, and looking at Sam with an inscrutable expression. Sam thought that maybe he should get up and go and find a cloth to clean them up with, but he couldn't move just yet. His muscles still felt like water.

Dean reached a hand out and grabbed Sam's wrist. Sam blinked at him for a moment, and then Dean tugged at him, and Sam allowed himself to fall forward. Dean's arm came around him and there was a moment of _what the fuck have we done?_ But then Sam met Dean's eyes, and Dean was looking at him, straight at him, as if he could see everything that Sam was thinking. Sam grinned and Dean smirked back.

They lay in silence for a while, and then Sam couldn't hold it in anymore. “Dean...” he started.

“Jesus, Sam,” growled Dean, “You still want to talk about this?” There was a lighter note in his voice though, an edge of amusement, then made Sam relax completely.

“Just go to sleep,” Dean added. Sam shut his eyes and did exactly that.

The next morning, Dean rolled out of bed before Sam was properly awake and disappeared into the bathroom without a word. Sam lay under the thin blankets for a few more minutes before he realised that he didn’t want another day of Dean stonewalling him. He got up, climbed into the shower with his brother, and had another try at sucking cock. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he might be getting better at it. Dean certainly seemed to think so. He dragged Sam back into the bedroom, and demonstrated his appreciation in a variety of ways, all of which left Sam panting and disinclined to move.

By the time they actually got to the library, it was nearly lunchtime. After only a few hours of researching, Dean got bored and distracted Sam with a handjob under the table. Sam nearly choked trying not to make any noise when he came. Dean tucked him back into his boxers, wiped his hand on the underside of the table (Sam had a moment of sympathy for the next person to sit there) and went to see if he could find something to eat.

They broke into the house that night and dug up the basement floor. Under the tile, they found the fingerless corpse of Harriet Matherson, murdered by her husband, and the missing fingers from her victims. As her bones burnt down to ashes, Dean backed Sam up against a wall and kissed him, hard. Sam smiled against Dean’s mouth and decided that he should get drunk more often.


End file.
